


Nothing for nothing

by manic_intent



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates, That Soulmates AU where John and Arthur aren't very into the idea, at least not at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 21:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19326268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: The quiet kid in the too-big hat stared steadily at Hosea and Dutch as they slowed their horses to a halt. “Think we’re clear,” Hosea said, making a show of checking the horizon. No law in sight. The kid said nothing. He was skinny, cheeks hollowed in and smeared with dirt. Smelled like he hadn’t had a bath in forever.“You all right, kid?” Dutch asked gently. “You’re safe now.”The kid tilted his head. “What d’you two want?” he asked warily.“Nothing,” Hosea said. He exchanged a glance with Dutch.The kid sniffed. “Nobody does nothing for nothing.”





	Nothing for nothing

**Author's Note:**

> For Elliot, who asked for John/Arthur RDR2. A few things were asked for but I’d written them all before so, OP was happy for me to do something else. :3 I haven’t written a soulmate story for a while, I think, so here we go. Heh.

The quiet kid in the too-big hat stared steadily at Hosea and Dutch as they slowed their horses to a halt. “Think we’re clear,” Hosea said, making a show of checking the horizon. No law in sight. The kid said nothing. He was skinny, cheeks hollowed in and smeared with dirt. Smelled like he hadn’t had a bath in forever. 

“You all right, kid?” Dutch asked gently. “You’re safe now.” 

The kid tilted his head. “What d’you two want?” he asked warily. 

“Nothing,” Hosea said. He exchanged a glance with Dutch. 

The kid sniffed. “Nobody does nothing for nothing.” 

“Maybe you haven’t met anybody worth knowing,” Dutch said, with a quick grin. “Me, I like to help people who need helping, shoot people who need shooting. I’m Dutch. This is my friend Hosea. Just so happened we were riding by and saw you in that prison cart, and we felt, hell, ain’t right, bringing a kid to town to hang just for stealing some chickens.” 

“Ain’t right at all,” Hosea said. 

This didn’t impress the boy. “So what d’you want?” 

“Nothing, I said. I mean what I say. Go on your merry way if you like. If you need cash, I’ve got a few dollars I can spare.” Dutch patted himself down. 

“Just a tip,” Hosea said, “if you want to steal, either learn how to walk softly or do it at night.” 

“You’re thieves? Both of you?” The boy asked warily. 

“Now, I think that’s a real harsh way to look at what we do,” Dutch said, grinning playfully. 

“We’re thieves, yes. Killers, if we have to. Robbers. Outlaws. We live outside the law because the law has no use for people like us,” Hosea said. He pointed to his left. “You ride that way, you should be able to get to Richmond before sunset. Innkeeper there’s always looking for decent help. You can start as a stableboy, maybe. Work your way up.” 

“What if I want to do what you do? Live outside the law?” the boy asked. 

“I’d start with a name,” Hosea said. 

The boy thought this over for a while as his horse whickered and stamped. He had a bad riding posture. Likely wasn’t used to horses. “Arthur,” said the boy. “Arthur Morgan.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Arthur,” Dutch said. He stopped patting himself down. 

“Pleased,” Hosea echoed. He nudged his horse forward, reaching out to shake Arthur’s hand. Arthur flinched, clenching his hands on the pommel of his stolen horse. Hosea sidestepped his horse away. “Arthur?” 

“I don’t.” Arthur took in a slow breath. “I don’t want a Mark.” He slapped his palm meaningfully on his lower arm.

Dutch let out an incredulous laugh. “So you just won’t touch anyone forever? That’ll take doing and then some, son. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Besides, Hosea’s already Marked. So’m I.” 

“It ain’t a laughing matter,” Arthur said, in the same flat tone. “My momma and my pa bore each other’s Mark. It don’t give joy like the Church says. They just used it to hurt each other, until the hurting got so bad…” He trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. 

“All right, all right.” Hosea searched through his saddlebags. He tossed Arthur one of his old pairs of gloves. “Let’s try that again, shall we?” 

Arthur smiled. It was a slow, nervy thing, like he wasn’t used to smiling. “I’ll get your gloves dirty,” he said.

“They’re your gloves now. Do what you like with them,” Hosea said. Solemnly, Arthur pulled the gloves on. He shook Hosea’s hand tightly, then Dutch’s, though he froze briefly as he noticed Dutch’s Mark. A black rose curled around a pistol. Annabelle bore the same Mark on her arm. Hosea envied Dutch somedays. His had long faded into a smudge with the death of his Bessie from consumption.

“We’re camped up ahead,” Dutch said, gracefully pretending not to notice Arthur’s tension. “You’re welcome to stay the night if you want. Longer, if you wish. 

“I’ll think about it,” Arthur said, guarded again. He made sure to follow them at a safe distance as they rode. The boy had good instincts, a useful trait in their line of work. As to his strangeness—well, everyone who lived the way they did was strange in some way, and Arthur would be little different.

#

“One, two, three,” John said. He touched palms with Abigail. They looked hopefully down at their arms. Nope. Not even a little tingle.

“Aww. Guess it’s rare,” Abigail said, trying to hide her disappointment with a wan smile. 

John nodded, rubbing at his arm. He’d been so sure. Ever since Mrs Grimshaw had saved Abigail from an angry mob and brought her into camp, Abigail and John had been inseparable. Sometimes they even finished each other’s sentences. John had never met someone who’d understood him so instinctively. He’d always been an awkward presence in the camp himself. Too skinny to be good for much but hustling poker, too angry and ignorant to be good for conversation. It’d been a trial and a half for Hosea, teaching John how to read and write. 

“Not everyone settles down with their Mark,” John said, “and I don’t know if you heard, but the reason Arthur wears gloves all the time is because things didn’t work out too good between his Marked parents.” 

“Reverend says a Mark is a sign from God that the other person is half of your soul,” Abigail said. She offered John a wry smile. “Don’t know if I believe that. Still. I like you a lot, John Marston. But I got my whole life ahead of me, and I think I’d like to see what the big deal is.” 

“I get that.”

“No hard feelings?”

John gave her a puzzled look. “Why’d there be? I want you to be happy too. You’re my best friend. Besides, I get it. Things didn’t work out for Arthur’s parents, but. Look at Dutch and Annabelle.” 

“Exactly. Dutch and Annabelle.” Abigail smiled dreamily. “Aww. When they’re together, they’re always so romantic. The way they talk, the gifts, hell, not even Arthur can—”

Muffled shouts of alarm and screams from the direction of the camp startled them to their feet. “Bandits? Law?” Abigail whispered. 

No sound of gunfire. “Stay behind me,” John said, drawing his knife from his boot. He didn’t yet qualify for a pistol of his own, not while the recoil still messed up his aim. Abigail stuck her tongue out at John and drew a knife of her own from under her skirts. They crept toward camp, trying not to make too much noise. 

Once they got nearly close enough to see, a voice behind them said, “Y’all trying to get yourselves killed?” 

John spun around. Arthur scowled at them from the shadows, cradling a rifle. “Put those goddamned pigstickers away and stay outta sight,” Arthur said, walking forward. 

John bit down on his irritation. Arthur was twice his size and taller than Dutch, a big man who Dutch and Hosea trusted to keep the camp in line. Strange man, too. Didn’t often talk much to anyone but Dutch and Hosea. Liked to be alone, always riding off by himself whenever he could. “What happened?” Abigail asked, obeying. 

Arthur scowled and looked away. “Colm O’Driscoll just shot Annabelle. Dutch brought her back to camp but it’s too late for her. He just can’t see it yet.” 

Abigail gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. John put his knife back. “No,” John said in disbelief. All the kids in the camp loved Annabelle. For someone who’d been an outlaw nearly as long as Dutch, she was endlessly kind. Patient. Always handy with chocolates and snacks. 

“Y’all best stay out of sight. Dutch… Dutch is in a real mood and I don’t know what he’s gonna do,” Arthur said. He started to turn away and hesitated as Abigail burst into tears. “Hey, hey now.” 

John hugged Abigail, patting her back as she sobbed. “How’d it… how’d it happen?” he asked Arthur. 

Arthur looked torn between beating a hasty retreat and trying to comfort Abigail. “Ambush,” he said, shaking his head. “Dutch killing Colm’s brother… we knew Colm was gonna hit back. Don’t think Dutch expected this but hell, they’re Marked, clear as day. Colm would’ve seen that. If he’d wanted to hurt Dutch, he’d have known what to do.” 

“How can you be so calm?” Abigail wailed. “It’s _Annabelle!_ ” 

“Pipe down,” Arthur growled, with a glance at camp. “You think I don’t care about what happened to Annabelle? I do. I care about what happens to the rest of y’all too. I’m calm because I got to be. I’ve seen how things go when someone loses a Mark. It’s always messy, always. So stay hidden, hear?” He pushed John’s shoulder in the direction of the deeper forest. 

John swatted Arthur’s arm away automatically. He wasn’t the same stubborn kid he’d been when Hosea and Dutch had first saved him from the law and had long been tired of being treated the same. He turned to snap at Arthur and froze as he felt an electric tingle on his arm.

“John,” Abigail whispered, awed. “Look.” 

He didn’t need to be told. Ink was unfurling from a blot on the underside of his forearm, writhing against his bones. It drew definition with what felt like reluctance into a wolf’s head, a black wolf with a crown of silver antlers. John looked up into the horror on Arthur’s face as the same Mark grew on Arthur’s arm. “Arthur,” John said, unsure. 

That snapped Arthur out of his daze. He rolled down his sleeves roughly. “Let’s keep that to ourselves,” Arthur said. 

The angry bite to his words made John flinch. “Arthur, I ain’t… that was an accident, I don’t—”

“So fucking keep it to yourself!” Arthur snarled. He turned on his heel and stalked into the forest. 

Shit. John stared after Arthur even when he couldn’t see him no more. “Arthur? Hell,” he whispered to himself. “What the hell.” 

“He’ll get over it,” Abigail said, with a watery smile. She gently rolled down John’s sleeves. “What with Annabelle…” Abigail bit down a sob. “Just give it time. Congratulations.”

“Don’t feel like nothing good to me,” John said. He remembered the rage in Arthur’s eyes and shivered.

#

John tried to forget it, he really did. Life got busy, even after Dutch’s grudge settled into a festering burn. John filled out, learned how to shoot, how to handle a horse, rustle livestock, walk softly. He worked his share, or tried to. Things had a way of messing up spectacularly whenever John got involved. Even Dutch was impressed.

“Next time you have some fool idea, maybe you get it signed off with me first,” Dutch said, after sweet-talking yet another unsuspecting sheriff into letting ‘his poor, not very bright nephew’ out of jail. 

“Okay,” John mumbled. His ears felt hot. The plan to rob a homestead had been pretty good, or so John had thought. House looked empty most days. Furnishings looked rich. How was he to know about the nosey neighbour who liked to take walks near the house in the goddamned evening? John had missed the old man on his sweeps.

Dutch chuckled. “I do appreciate the initiative. Better than people who’d just sit around in camp waiting to be spoonfed.” 

“I guess,” John said. 

“Why’d you go by yourself? Should always take someone with you. Especially at your age. Splitting the take ain’t so bad. You can save up if you don’t spend much,” Dutch said.

“Nobody in the camp wanted to come.” Javier was off with the Callahans, Jenny and the girls were embroiled in some scheme in Armadillo, and Hosea and Dutch had been casing a bank. 

“Not even Arthur?” Dutch watched John keenly as John mumbled under his breath and shook his head. “Now, whatever quarrel you and Arthur have between you, y’all should knock it off. Can’t have that kinda strife in my gang.” 

“You should maybe have this talk with Arthur,” John said. 

“I will, once I have some context for it. Well?” Dutch waited. When John nibbled on his lower lip and said nothing, Dutch sighed. “Y’all are both Marked for each other. Is that it?”

“W-what? I didn’t say nothing,” John yelped. 

Dutch rolled his eyes. “God give me strength. It’s hardly a stretch of the imagination. Arthur ain’t one to hold grudges like this, let alone against someone he grew up with. Y’all been covering your arms even during a hot day. It’s been obvious to Hosea and I for months. Let me see it.” 

John reluctantly pulled up his sleeve to his elbow, showing Dutch the mark. Dutch smiled wistfully. His had long faded to a dull smudge, a scar that was all he had left to remember Annabelle by. “Nice. Suits you both.” 

“Thanks.” John had thought so too. 

When he was alone, John often admired the Mark. He’d used to scoff at the Reverend when the Reverend had taught that the Mark had been a symbol of the Divine, a gift-mark for Abel’s children just as Cain had been curse-marked. Now that he could see it on his own skin, John could believe it. The wolf’s fur was intimately rendered, the arch of the silver horns gracefully sketched. He often saw the horned wolf in his dreams, loping close by. Watching him with Arthur’s eyes. 

“Want me to talk to Arthur?” Dutch asked. 

“Nah. It’s fine. Things are fine.” 

“They ain’t. Look, son. Hosea and I are real fond of you, but friction like this in the life we lead will get someone killed sooner or later. Arthur loathes Bill, we all know that, but he ain’t like this even with Bill. So you and Arthur either work this out or one of you leaves,” Dutch said. He smiled at John’s incredulous stare, ruthless. “I’m tired of people I know dying under my watch.”

When Dutch put it that way… John exhaled. “I guess I’ll go.” 

Dutch raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t even gonna try?”

“I’ve tried. I try every couple of weeks, I do. I don’t… Abigail will make a real fuss if I go back to camp, so. Could you just explain? Tell her I’ll be fine.” 

Dutch looked like he was regretting his ultimatum, frowning to himself. He nodded instead of trying to talk John out of it, and tossed John a jingling pouch of coins. “Take care of yourself, John.” He smiled, as though amused at a sudden thought. “Keep a light finger on that trigger, y’hear?” 

“Yeah.” John turned his horse around, spurring it into a canter across the plains. He looked back briefly before he reached the trees and saw Dutch watching him, straight-backed on the Count.

#

Tracking John down wasn’t hard with the Mark. Arthur could sense roughly where John was, and how close. Problem was, John knew where Arthur was as well, which turned their current situation into the most annoying game of tag that Arthur had ever played. Whole sorry business wasn’t even Arthur’s damn fault. If not for Abigail, Arthur would’ve been tempted to leave things be. Let John get a taste of ‘freedom’. He’d have come back sooner or later if he didn’t get himself killed. To be fair, that was the bit that Abigail was worried about.

Arthur didn’t gain much on John until some random asshole rode up to him on a black Arabian to challenge Arthur to a race, chasing Arthur halfway to the next town with his whining until Arthur had lost his temper. With the new, fleeter horse under him, the world fled past. It would normally be a pleasure to ride a horse this fine, but Arthur wasn’t in a mood to appreciate anything. 

John gave up running in a town south of the border. Arthur walked into a bar to find John in the far corner, drinking a glass of something amber. Arthur grimaced, stalking over and swiping up the glass, sniffing it. “You drinking sotol?” Arthur said, incredulous. “You even know what goes into it sometimes?” He looked over at the counter, where a large jar of the amber liquid sat, a dead snake coiled within it. “Damnit, John.” 

“Hasn’t killed me yet,” John said. He didn’t look too far gone, though his eyes focused badly over Arthur’s face. “Pull up a chair if you wanna drink.” 

“No, you sober up. We’re going home.” 

“They take their alcohol real seriously in these parts,” John said, pointedly oblivious. “You know in Guadalajara, there are two competing tequila families? Shooting at each other and all that.” 

“Your point being?” Arthur glowered at John. This didn’t have the usual effect. 

“I ain’t got one. Just making conversation. Sit or go. All the same to me.” John was wearing his Mark openly, sleeves rolled up. Arthur’s gaze flicked to it and he grit his teeth, sitting down. “Dutch sent you to get me?” John asked. 

“Nope. He told me you left.” Not that Dutch needed to. Arthur could feel it.

“He tell you why?” 

“Apparently, you’d rather run out on us than talk to me,” Arthur said. 

“You cut me dead every time I so much as wished you a good morning,” John said, swiping over his glass. “Felt easier all ‘round to just leave, if you hated me that much.” 

Arthur ducked his head, exasperated. “I don’t hate you.” 

“You hate this.” John reached over and grabbed Arthur’s arm over the hidden Mark. “Ain’t that the same?” 

“I just…” Arthur pushed away from the table. “Sit there. I’m gonna get a drink if we have to talk.” 

A glass of tequila made some difference. The bar was quiet, the barkeeper pointedly ignoring them. This early into the afternoon in a town this small, Arthur could guess that they might have a bit of privacy. “Look,” he said, “this thing. The Mark. It don’t mean anything if it don’t have to. You and Abigail, what you both got, it’s worth more.” 

John shot Arthur a long, tired look. “Yeah? What’d you know about that?” 

“I’ve… fine. Twice I’ve been in love,” Arthur said, slow and evenly so that he’d keep his temper in check. John blinked. “Each time it didn’t work out. Once because the woman I liked was rich, and her family didn’t think much of an outlaw calling on their precious daughter. Once because other outlaws happened. Gunned down my… Anyway.” It was always hard to talk about that part. “Life moves on, is what I’m saying. Mark or no Mark.” 

“So why did you take it so personally?” John demanded. 

“I didn’t, I just. Okay. My parents. My father was an outlaw. My mother wasn’t—she’d had some money of her own before marriage. What with having to pay out my father’s bounties every so often though, she went broke real quick. Thing is. They weren’t in love when they met. They just felt like they should be. That’s why they got married. Because they both had the same goddamned Mark. Kept at it through all the misery they caused each other, had a kid, all because of a fucking Mark. They died of all the grief they caused each other at the end.” 

“I heard,” John said softly. 

“Reverend says it’s a gift. I think it’s more of a curse. I don’t know why God or the Devil or whatever might mark out two people in this world for each other, but people are people. They’d be the same shitty, awful people they are to the people they’re Marked with. There’d be the same shitty, awful consequences. Life out here ain’t much for happy endings, especially for people like us,” Arthur said. He’d seen that all and then some. 

John mulled this over. “Y’know, Arthur, I don’t actually get what you’re trying to tell me.”

“Jesus.” Arthur should’ve remembered that about John. Fucking jackass. “I’m trying to say, the Mark don’t matter, and you shouldn’t let an accident come between you and Abigail.” 

John stared at Arthur for a long moment. He started to laugh. He laughed so hard that he drank a sip of his sotol to come down and ended up coughing instead, wheezing against the table. “That why you were ignoring me all this time? Because of _Abigail_? Christ!” 

“I ain’t blind,” Arthur growled, annoyed. 

“Yeah, you are. Look. Abigail’s my best friend. I like her fine, she likes me fine. Just not in the way you think. She wants to live a little. Maybe find her Mark.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Arthur said.

“No, you won’t. You’d respect what she wants to do, is what you will. Just as I have. It’s her life, not yours, not mine. Just because things didn’t work out for you don’t mean it won’t for her. If she changes her mind along the way, hell, that’s up to her too.” 

“Y’all seem mighty close for all that.” 

“We are. Maybe we did check whether we were Marked, and we weren’t, but there ain’t no law between a man and a woman being friends. Why does anything more have to come into that?” 

“She talked me into coming after you,” Arthur pointed out.

“Yeah, she would. Same as I would, if she’d been the one running off and I knew you’d be the only one who could easily find her.” 

“I s’pose this was a misunderstanding,” Arthur said. It felt good to admit that he was wrong. “If we ride out tomorrow morning, we’d get back to the camp in a few days.” 

“You do that,” John said agreeably, patting Arthur’s Marked arm. “I’m gonna stay here if it’s all the same to you.” 

“Why?” Arthur asked, surprised. “Things won’t be the same, back in camp.” 

“Because I maybe see what Abigail was getting at. And the Reverend. Sure, Marks don’t make a relationship work. They maybe shouldn’t be the be-all and end-all of people. Still, I know you, Arthur Morgan, and you know me. Maybe some greater power drew us together, maybe it didn’t, but I keep thinking. Maybe it could work out. Maybe not. I’d want to try. If I go back with you, you’d just want to pretend nothing ever happened, and I don’t want to do that. I’d rather live by myself than live a lie.” John drained his glass down to the dregs. 

“You’re a goddamned pain in the ass,” Arthur said, resigned. He drank his shot of tequila as well and got to his feet. “C’mon then.”

“Said I wasn’t going back.”

“So we ain’t. Where were you actually headed? Or did you not have a plan?” 

John stared at him. “’We’?”

“Your ears work or not, Marston? Get up.”

#

John dropped his cheek against Arthur’s shoulder with a strangled gasp and buried his mouth against Arthur’s throat, his nails digging into Arthur’s back. “Easy there, easy,” Arthur murmured, stroking John’s spine as John took another inch of him. Arthur’s back was pressed to the headboard, John straddling his lap with a leg hanging off the narrow bed on the floor.

“Easy fucking there yourself,” John hissed, even as he struggled to relax. God, this part always hurt no matter how much prep they did or oil they used. “You ain’t the one getting fucked by someone hung like a fucking _horse_.” 

Arthur chuckled, the evil bastard. “You’re the one who wanted to do this here.” He kissed John’s jaw, nuzzling up to his ear. His thumb stroked the rim of the hole stretched around his cock and chuckled again as John muffled another whine against Arthur’s neck. 

“On a… a bed instead of in the mud and grass? H-hell, wonder why.” 

“Still your idea, not mine,” Arthur said. Arthur never pressed John for something like this. Not because he didn’t want it, but Arthur was funny like that. He was damned shy about obligations and goddamned shy about being Marked still, but they were making some headway. Even Arthur had to admit this was worth trying. John kissed Arthur, panting. He let the soothing litany of praise whispered into his ear relax him, the caresses over his back and ass. It was a rough fit getting down to the hilt but John was light-headed when he made it, grinning and clenching down to hear Arthur growl. 

“Cheeky bastard,” Arthur said, smacking John’s ass. “For that, I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be riding tomorrow.” 

“Not even you?” John asked, and smirked as Arthur glowered at him and shoved him down onto his back. 

“Cover your mouth,” Arthur warned, his eyes gleaming. “I know how loud you get.” 

“Okay, Arthur.” John kept Arthur’s gaze and bit down over his own arm, right over the mark. 

Arthur hissed. He shoved John’s thighs toward his head and fucked John into the bed with powerful thrusts that had John scrabbling to hang on to the edge of the bed with his free hand, whimpering against his skin. Couldn’t do much but hold on when Arthur got into a mood like this, and John loved it that way. Loved the sounds their bodies made, loud and lewd in the cramped room, the way Arthur looked down at him hungrily, like he’d sooner devour him than fuck him. Loved the way it felt, filled up with nowhere to go and Arthur pushing into the deepest, sweetest part of him, dragging them both to the brink. 

John ached all over by the time Arthur let out a loud grunt and pumped his hips against John’s ass. He moaned, pulling away from his arm, where he’d left a circle of welts around the Mark. “Arthur,” John gasped, “Arthur, please.” He pushed his hips urgently against Arthur’s belly. Arthur smirked and pinned John’s wrists to the pillow, kissing him slowly, his softening cock wedged inside John’s body. It still felt big, even when soft. 

“You don’t get any relief yet, you little shit.” Arthur kissed the Mark on John’s arm, nipping at the ink. “Since you thought it was funny to tease me, I think you should keep on doing it. Tease me until I’m hard again. Then I’ll give you what you want.” 

“Fuck you, Arthur,” John said, though he wrapped his legs around Arthur’s waist and started to grind eagerly against him.

#

“You sure?” Arthur asked. The camp wasn’t visible from where they were, but Arthur knew it was in the woods. This was exactly the kind of area that Dutch and Hosea liked. Wild, but not too wild.

“I’m sure,” John said, neutral. “It’s what you want, ain’t it?” 

“Is it what _you_ want?” Arthur asked. He’d been asking the same question all the way north of the border, and John had given him a slightly different answer each time. “Give me the truth.” 

“Truth is, I think there’s nothing good for either of us down this road,” John said, “even before Annabelle got killed. But if it’s what you want, it’s what I want.” 

Arthur exhaled. He watched the woods as Boadicea snorted and flicked her tail, the Arabian prancing with impatience. It was hard to stay here, just out of reach of everything he’d known. Harder to turn Boadicea around, back to the road. John looked surprised as he caught up. “Arthur.” 

“Don’t,” Arthur said. It was easier to ride, to answer the road.

**Author's Note:**

> Refs:  
> https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/features/far-and-away/tequila-rocks-mexico/
> 
> twitter: @manic_intent  
> about my writing etc: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> 


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